


A Mission, An Admission, Ignition

by luninosity



Series: Holiday Fic [12]
Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: First Kiss, Fix-It, Happy Ending, Holidays, M/M, Marriage Proposal, New Year's Eve, Reconciliation, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-15 07:55:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1297264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three New Year’s Eve kisses, and a happy ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Mission, An Admission, Ignition

**Author's Note:**

> Well--two years later, all twelve of the Holiday Fic are complete! I feel accomplished. Thanks for sticking around to read, cheerleading, and generally being awesome, you guys.
> 
> Title and opening lines courtesy of the Foo Fighters’ “Erase/Replace.”

  
_you made these promises_   
_we made these promises_   
_erase, replace, erase, replace_   
_we’ll make more promises_   
_we’ll wait for promises_   
_erase, replace, erase, replace_   
_a vision, division_   
_revision…_

  
  
The third first time, it’s New Year’s Eve again, because Erik is sentimental and absurdly in love and unafraid to admit it, and Charles is too, so that’s just fine. It’s raining when they kiss. It’d been raining earlier, as well. When Erik had asked the question. When Charles had said yes. Erik’s decided to love the rain.  
  
They’d been out shopping that afternoon, picking up supplies for the evening—not a huge party, the students’re mostly enjoying the last few days of winter break, only a few of them boarding at the mansion over the holiday—and they’d stopped in Times Square, buoyant and unnoticed, the two of them alone together amid all the gleeful tourists and excited vibrant lights. Charles had smiled and Erik had said, “I love you,” and balanced the umbrella happily and handlessly over both their heads despite the difficulties of wheelchair and shopping bags. Had thought, gazing at Charles, watching Charles smile, _let’s get married._  
  
“What,” Charles had said, laughing, “right now, here, this afternoon, and yes, of course yes, yes!” and in their heads had shouted _YES!_ with enough brilliance to make half the people in the square suddenly grin.  
  
Bags in the car, a hasty trip to City Hall, hands being held and a marriage license and kisses under the rain. A proper reception at some point, of course, but this is the right moment, their moment, not about public faces and statements and the cause. They’re Erik and Charles, two ridiculous old men who live together and play chess together and read academic articles and Heinlein novels to each other in bed; who run a school together, who bicker about the merits of paying someone to fix the roof-shingles versus letting Erik try to do it, who’ve broken each other’s hearts and mended them countless times, and right here and now they’re getting married, because they’ve always forever been in love.  
  
When they kiss as the year turns over, it’s a first. They’re married. And it’s a brand-new year.  
  
  
The _first_ first time, they’re drunk on champagne and giddiness, all the potential possibilities of the new year rolling in. The recruits—they’re not children, not after Darwin’s sacrifice, and never mind that Charles promises he’ll be back once he figures out corporeality again, he’d not known that at the time, and the sacrifice is real—are all sprawled out by the television, exuberant and tipsy, watching the ball glitter in Times Square; the room’s strewn with paper hats and a tipped-over ancient Monopoly game Sean’d found in a closet, and Charles had gotten up a second ago, wobbly and laughing, cheeks flushed and eyes brighter than usual, and said, “Hang on, more champagne, we can’t properly toast without it…” and then tripped over nothing at all on the way to the kitchen.  
  
Erik had caught him, hand on Charles’s shoulder, other hand on Charles’s waist; and now he’s holding on a little too long, standing a little too close. Too quick to move, to be on his feet, to be ready to catch Charles always.  
  
Charles looks up at him and those lips part, but no words leave them. Erik doesn’t have any words either. No vocabulary in his life for this moment, for a celebration, for a night of setting aside old griefs and finding hope for beginnings. No sentences to encompass ocean-jewel eyes and the way Charles leans into his touch, fearlessly affectionate, as if Erik’s hands _aren’t_ stained with blood and capable of snapping that elegant neck and twisting all the kindness into monstrosity, because that’s what Erik does, Erik kills people, Erik kills Nazis and sympathizers and his own _mother_ , because Erik’s not capable of loving anyone without destruction…  
  
“You,” Charles says, “should never drink champagne, it apparently makes you think extraordinarily wrong thoughts extremely loudly,” and Erik says “What?” and Charles says, “You idiot, I love you.” And then they stand there staring at each other for a while in the kitchen entryway.  
  
Behind them, the countdown begins. Ten. Nine. Eight.  
  
“You don’t,” Erik says, “you can’t, you—Charles, you’re very intoxicated and we’re going to forget this ever happened,” and he’s still got that hand on Charles’s waist because his body, taking orders from his heart, hasn’t figured out how to let go.  
  
“I’m not, actually.” Charles is smiling. Erik’s mesmerized. “This is nothing. I could tell you stories. Oxford parties, pubs…trust me, Erik, I know exactly what I’m saying. And why.” _And I’m saying that you’re wrong. You love so beautifully, you know. Everything you do, everything you’ve ever done, comes from love. Everything you’re thinking about me now, all those words—and I’m not, I’m not that—that brave shining Galahad you want me to be, you don’t know what I’ve—but I told you I know everything about you. I do. And I’m not afraid of you._  
  
Erik looks down at him. Six. Five. Four. “No. You’re not, are you? Not you.”   
  
He’s always thought he should be more disturbed by telepathy, by the sinuous weaving of someone else’s mind into his own. Rationally, he is: he’s spent too many years fighting the fight his way, relying on only himself, to easily accept the idea that someone could reach into his brain and reshape him on a whim. But this is Charles. And Erik, angrily, begrudgingly, helplessly, trusts Charles. With, yes, everything.   
  
He thinks, very clearly: _would you tell ME everything, then? If I asked for that in return, if I wanted all those pieces of you, all the secrets you’ve told no one, Charles, not ever. I’m a selfish man and I want it all. Would you still tell me?_  
  
“Yes,” Charles says, _yes, I would, I will_ , and the ball’s dropping in the background to the sound of cheers and clinking glasses, and Charles reaches up and cups Erik’s face in his hands, thumbs warm on Erik’s cheeks; Charles looks at him intently for a moment, then kisses him, sweet and effervescent, champagne-flavored and sincere.  
  
 _I love you,_ Erik thinks, heart pounding and head spinning and Charles’s mouth doing magical things to his. Charles laughs. _I know. I know everything, didn’t you hear me? And I love you._  
  
Erik pushes him up against the kitchen wall, getting hands and fingers under that fluffy academic sweater the way that Charles wants him to, heedless of the chatter on the other side or the forgotten quest for more champagne. He’s only heeding the way Charles wraps one leg around his waist, the way Charles moans into the kiss when Erik ventures an exploratory nip at that plush lower lip, teeth and forcefulness and possessive impulses evidently very welcome, from the consequent radiating bliss. The way that Charles thinks, and Erik answers, _yes._  
  
  
The second first time, they’re standing in the ruins of a no-longer-festive Times Square on another New Year’s Eve, glaring at each other across holiday rubble.  
  
Well, one of them is standing. Erik never has forgiven himself for that. Charles might have, or might not have; Erik’s never wanted to remove the helmet and the uncertainty along with it. This way he doesn’t know. And he knows he’s a coward. But he can’t.  
  
“New Year’s Eve, for heaven’s sake!” Charles is yelling at him. This means Charles is talking to him. It’s pathetic that Erik’s heart still pounds the same way, at that. “You arranged a kidnapping in Times Square, on New Year’s Eve, Erik, these people just wanted to celebrate, they weren’t doing anyone any harm!”  
  
“It was an anti-mutant demonstration!”  
  
“It was not! Just because they had a musical act, who, yes, I’ll grant you, has some unpleasantly anti-mutant views that he’s chosen to express in public—”  
  
“Being kidnapped will keep him from expressing them!” Behind them, the various members of the X-Men and the Brotherhood are eying each other with matching expressions: wariness, loathing, and a certain degree of mutual embarrassment. No one wants to be the first one to interrupt.  
  
“Yes, but you’re hardly going to change his mind!” The him in question is currently hiding behind Hank and will probably require a change of trousers. Erik sighs. He’s not equipped with spare trousers.   
  
Some part of his brain points out that this is an excuse to let Charles win. He ignores it ruthlessly. “Would you rather I let him say those things on stage?”  
  
“I’d rather you respect his right to say them!”  
  
“He’s an idiot!”  
  
“Yes, and so’re you! Do you know how many people you’ve terrified today?”  
  
“Does it matter, Charles, they’re human, they’ll fight us regardless—”  
  
“No one was fighting anyone until you showed up!”  
  
“He was saying those things about _you!”_ Erik shouts, and then slams a hand over his mouth, too late. Three trash bins, hovering in the air where he’d forgotten about them, fall to the ground with accusatory clatter.  
  
Charles looks nonplussed. Tries to say something, waits for the trash bins to stop grumbling, tries again. “You…were going to kidnap a famous musical pop star…because he insulted _me_ …?”  
  
“He’s a very influential celebrity,” Erik mutters in the direction of the trash bins.  
  
“Right,” Charles says, very slowly. “And…leaving aside the question of his lasting influence on a generation of teenage girls…did it ever occur to you that, in fact, I did see some of those epithets? And would be capable of handling them, if I cared to, on my own?”  
  
“He called you a—”  
  
“ _Erik_. I _know_.”  
  
“Then—”  
  
“Just stop talking.” Charles pinches the bridge of his nose briefly. “You. Come here for a moment.” The man does, though he looks as if he’d far rather not.  
  
“Hello,” Charles offers, completely calm and unruffled, as if he’s just brought them both up at the front of a classroom to be scolded rather than dead center in a moments-ago battlefield. Blackboards and an apple on the desk and kindly disappointed crossed arms. Astonishing. Annoyingly effective. Erik feels incredibly guilty, and then is horrified at himself for letting it work. “Erik is an idiot and is going to apologize. Right now.”  
  
“ _No_ , Charles.”  
  
“ _Now_ , Erik.”  
  
“I’m sorry that we attempted to kidnap you,” Erik says, which is strictly speaking true. Charles narrows eyes at him—those wonderful blue eyes, the eyes Erik sees when he closes his own and allows his heart to ache in the moments before sleep—but lets it go.  
  
“Now. We’re very sorry about your, er, concert. I can pay for any damages to your equipment, if you’d like. And I think you should thank Beast—Henry McCoy, over there—Hank, wave at us, please—for saving you from Erik’s minions, don’t you?”  
  
Erik looks up. Yes, that’s a news helicopter. Two. The whole world’s watching Charles charm the narrative into going his way. Not even bothering with telepathy. Amazing.  
  
The man manages something that sounds like, “ ’nk you,” which is likely as good as they’re going to get, and Charles nods. “All right, then. My lawyers will be in touch about the damages; as I said, we’re happy to make this right. And please apologize to your fans for us.”  
  
The man’s staring at Charles like he’s never seen anything to compare. Erik can sympathize.  
  
Charles inquires blithely, “Will you also please tell the nice people that I’m not in fact controlling your mind in any way _even though I could inform the world where to find those photos you take of yourself in women’s undergarments_ and in any case we all know I can’t control Magneto, and nothing can make him apologize if he doesn’t want to, so you know we mean it, correct?”  
  
Erik’s willing to bet a large sum of money that every newscaster’s hand accidentally slipped and cut out the broadcast for a few crucial seconds. He’s also busy being shocked at the edge of sheer bitterness under Charles’s tone, in those _other_ words, buried beneath all the kindly professorial lecturing.   
  
Of course he’s never apologized, not exactly, no, but surely Charles knows—surely Charles knows Erik has meant it, has thought the words, has thought them every day, would change the past and save the present and make a gift of the future for Charles if he could, if it would make any difference at all—  
  
The man’s nodding, and Charles says, “Excellent, then, we’ll be going,” and turns away, turns away from Erik, and that’s not _right_ —  
  
“Wait—”  
  
Charles pauses. Turns back. “Did you need something, Erik?”  
  
“Charles,” Erik says hopelessly, standing in the middle of the desolate night-drenched square with forlorn bits of confetti drifting across his boots and sticking to the wheelchair, that wheelchair, so present to all his senses. “Charles. I’m sorry.”  
  
Charles looks shocked, which Erik would take as a victory, except it hurts too much to be that. “Erik—you—don’t say it just because I said—never mind, thank you, accepted, of course. And so am I.”  
  
“No,” Erik says, “Charles, I’m _sorry_ , I’m so sorry, I love you, please.”  
  
“Oh,” Charles says, and actually leans forward a little, possibly even inadvertently, looking up at him from the chair. Around them, midnight’s approaching. The air’s icy, but a few neon lights’re glowing away, proud and determined and not giving in. The ball’s crumpled, melted and useless, but it’s only a symbol anyway, and it can be replaced or repaired. Renewed, for the next new year. “Erik—thank you. I—I am _not_ going to cry, honestly—you know I love you. It’s all right. We’re all right. I promise.”  
  
“No,” Erik tells him, wanting to come closer, afraid to come closer, “no, we’re not, I hurt you and I love you and I still want to know everything about you, all of it, I’m still that selfish and I want all of you and you can’t just say you forgive me, it doesn’t work like that, you can’t just—”  
  
“It’s New Year’s Eve,” Charles interrupts. “One minute to go. Less.”  
  
“It…is, yes…Charles—”  
  
“You kissed me first,” Charles says. “On New Year’s Eve. That New Year’s Eve.”  
  
“I did not,” Erik says, “you kissed me.”  
  
“Are you certain?” Charles raises an eyebrow. Familiar. Arrogant. Beloved.  
  
And Erik shouts, “Yes!” and takes that step over to him, and then another, and one more. “Yes, you kissed me, do you not remember, how can you not remember when I remember it all—” and he pulls the helmet off without thinking because he’s that angry, though whether at himself or at Charles he’ll never know.  
  
And Charles kisses him without moving, phantom lips against his own over the last lonely inches between them. Charles tastes like tea and sugar and pineapple jam on morning toast and laughter and tears, like everything Erik’s ever needed in his broken life.  
  
 _I love you!_ Charles shouts, and Erik says it at exactly the same time; Erik starts to lean down and Charles reaches up and yanks him forward into the kiss, and Erik ends up awkwardly draped half across his lap in the chair and it’s hideously uncomfortable and it’s perfect, it’s everything, it’s those lips meeting his and hands roaming into all the places familiar and new, so many discoveries. It’s the helmet crumpling itself into a useless heap of shredded atoms, and it’s Mystique making horrified sounds about her brother and not needing to see _that_ ; it’s Charles laughing into the kiss and twining fingers into Erik’s hair and lacing gold through Erik’s thoughts, shining and glorious and right where Erik wants him to be always and forever, no separating now.  
  
 _Happy New Year,_ Charles whispers, and Erik answers _yes_ wordlessly because he’s crying. Charles runs a fingertip over his cheek, collecting tears that gleam on fingertips, and then kisses him again, and Erik kisses back. With resolution.


End file.
